Touching in Inappropriate Places
by Ijemanja
Summary: Five places House and Cuddy never have sex.


Notes: Five places House and Cuddy never have sex. Can be read as occuring in the same universe as my other two stories, 'The Essential Meaning of Something' and 'Six O'clock', but works as a standalone.

Pairing: House/Cuddy

**Touching in Inappropriate Places**

by Ijemanja

* * *

"So what's for dessert?"

She gets to her feet and begins clearing away the table, telling him: "There's sugar-free, zero-fat raspberry sorbet in the freezer."

"Flavour-free frozen dessert-substitutes for women with low self-esteem don't count."

She holds up her hands, a dinner plate in each. "Then I can't help you."

He stands up beside her, taking the plates from her and setting them aside. "Really? Bummer. I was sure you'd be able to come up with something."

She shrugs, saying, "Nothing comes to mind." She puts her arms up around his neck however because he's not exactly being subtle about it as he crowds her space.

"See, this is why you need me around. No ability to think outside the box. And what I'm thinking is..." He reaches around her and grips the edge of the table, tests its sturdiness with a firm shake. "Will this thing hold?"

"You want to - on my table? Where we eat? I don't think so."

He pushes his hips into hers, the edge of the table pressing the backs of her thighs. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Where's your sense of hygiene?"

"That's what cleaning products are for."

"Clean or not, I'd never get the image out of my head - your bare ass on my table..." She makes a face.

"You could let me be on top for once, then it'd be your bare ass."

She snorts. "Like that's going to happen."

He apparently decides to take this as a challenge. "Oh them's fightin' words, them is," he says.

And the next thing she knows she's being dragged to the floor where a brief struggle ensues, ending when she finds herself unceremoniously pinned by his not inconsiderable weight.

"Oh, much better," she drawls, looking up at the ceiling.

"Don't have any plans for eating down here, do you?"

She gives him a pointed look. "Do you?"

"Nice." He smiles approvingly and then he's shifting down and shoving her skirt up to her waist.

While he's otherwise engaged she stretches her arms over her head, smiling to herself. The thing men never seem to get is how easy it is to be on top and flat on your back all at the same time.

And at least her table will still be clean enough to eat off.

*

He really, really loves tennis. More specifically, the tight little outfits with their short little skirts, and the way his hand can roam over the back of her thigh all the way up without touching anything but skin.

"I love tennis," he says. He's looking down at the top of her head as she presses him into the chain link fence surrounding the court, her sweaty hair pulled into a high pony tail sticking through the top of her visor.

"Me too," she replies, her fingers toying with the buttons of his polo shirt. "You know what I love about it?"

"The fashion?" He cranes his neck to peer over her shoulder as he drags up her skirt and grabs a handful of sensible, sporty, cotton-covered ass.

"I _love_ winning," she says like she's confessing some dirty little secret.

As if he didn't already know.

"This," he reminds her, "Is the first time I've picked up a racket in about seven years so..."

He can feel her grinning against his shoulder. "So I slaughtered your ass and you should just suck it up and admit it."

"Seems like the nice thing to do would have been to go easy on me."

"Winner gets boasting rights. Loser eats humble pie and _likes_ it. That's just how the world works, I'm afraid."

She shrugs. No sympathy.

"You are so jaded," he says, smiling a little as she pulls the collar of his shirt aside and her mouth presses damply against his chest. "It makes me sad. It makes me think about sad things like lost puppies and clowns with no small children to traumatize."

Her tongue darts out to taste the base of his neck before she pulls back to look at him. "Anyone would think you'd never had your ass kicked by a girl before. And we both know that's not true."

Her hands slide slowly down his torso, dip under the untucked hem of his shirt only to stop at his waistband, fingers lingering there, teasing the bare skin of his stomach.

"In fact," she continues, "I think you kind of like it."

Someone does, anyway. He's not so sure it's him but right now he's willing to go with it.

Because he knows that look in her eyes. It's a look that tells him she's seriously considering sticking her hand in his shorts and doing all sorts of naughty things to him right here, right now.

Unfortunately, she's not going to get the chance, he realises suddenly as he looks over her head and sees they have an audience.

And this, he thinks, is the problem with trying to get busy in public.

Removing the hand he's been working under the leg of her panties, he waves to the foursome of twenty-year-olds who are standing on the far side of the court watching with varying degrees of interest. "She really likes it when I let her win!" he calls out, pointing down at Cuddy who up till this point has been paying more attention to nipping at his throat than their surroundings.

She freezes. Turns her head briefly, turns back tight-lipped. Glares at him as if it's his fault. Then grabs her racket and leaves by the nearest gate.

"Let me win?" she mutters when he catches up. "You wish."

But the seed of doubt has been sown and to help it along he slings an arm over her shoulders. "Never mind," he tells her, really bringing the patronising because it's so much fun watching her seethe, "Why don't you let me give you some pointers, so next time I won't have to go so easy on you?"

She makes a disgusted sound and shrugs him off, leaving him to lag behind as she moves in a huff towards the parking lot, her skirt flouncing around the tops of her fast-moving thighs.

He really loves tennis.

*

"See? I told you we weren't too old for this."

"Well, I guess - _ouch_."

"What?"

"Hit my head."

"The gear shift is sticking into my thigh, you don't hear me complaining."

"The seat's back as far as it'll go, I don't see how -"

"Well if you were just a bit more bendy -"

"Hey, you're not exactly helping, either."

"I can't even move. You had to get a compact..."

"This isn't a compact."

"When you're over six foot two, anything smaller than a Winnebago is a compact."

"This was your idea."

"And it's working out great, don't you think?"

"All right, god this is ridiculous. Can we please just forget it?"

"Fine. Just don't - ow. Okay, _that_ I'm complaining about."

"Sorry."

"You don't sound sorry."

"Well maybe next time you'll listen when I say we're too old for this."

*

It's nice up here. Flat on his back, spread-eagled, cool afternoon breeze and a clear sky overhead.

Suddenly a shadow falls over his face, and when he looks up to see who is blocking his sun, sees Cuddy standing over him, hands on hips.

He'd get up. He would. If he could currently move, that is.

"What are you doing?"

"Right now? Wishing you'd come a little closer so I can look up your skirt."

"There have been reports of a large, sweaty man bowling people over on the stairs. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Basement to roof. Five flights. Seventeen times, up and down." He just manages to lift one pointer finger to act out the 'up and down' part.

"Why?" she asks, clearly baffled.

"Helps me think?"

With a sigh she crouches down and looks at him from a not-so-elevated position. "So, any brilliant revelations to impart?"

"That I'm one hell of an athlete. I only really felt like I was going to go into massive cardiac arrest and die once I hit the teens."

"Here I was wondering if we had a delusional psych patient on the loose. How silly of me."

She reaches down and puts two fingers to his wrist, feeling his pulse.

"What do you think, doctor, will I live?" He's already evading her touch, too clinical for his taste. His hand moves to her ankle instead, sliding up her calf to her bent knee. Apparently he can move after all, given the right incentive.

"Anything's possible, I suppose," she replies, her tone dry but tolerant.

He closes his eyes, just enjoying the feel of her skin, warm and smooth under his palm. It's Fall now but early enough she's still getting away with no stockings and open-toed shoes. His hand travels over her knee, fingers brushing the hem of her skirt. Her thighs are world class, firm and toned, and he laments, not for the first time, that knee-length skirts are the one concession she ever makes to propriety.

"You've got great legs," he says, eyes opening again to meet hers.

"Another revelation?"

"Common knowledge."

Her hand moves to cover his, half-way to her hip and possibly planning on staying there a while. Instead he turns his hand over, takes hers, and tugs her forward.

She catches herself before she overbalances, planting her other hand on his chest and remaining upright, surprisingly steady for someone in heels.

"As seduction techniques go, yours could use some work."

"I'm weakened, prone, usually you'd be all over me like this."

She shakes her head, amused, either because she doesn't think he's being serious or because she does. "I'm not rolling around on filthy concrete with you," she says, glancing around them and then down at her watch. "I've got a meeting in ten minutes."

"Perfect. I only need five."

"I'll bet. But there's one other thing." Smirking, she leans over until her face hovers above his. "You also really need to shower," she says, and pushes off him and stands up.

"Is that code talk for 'meet you in the locker room'?" he calls after her retreating form.

"That's code for 'you smell bad'," she replies without turning.

He just folds his hands behind his head and blinks up at the sun in a clear blue sky.

*

Cuddy shakes her head with a laugh. "No."

"It's late, there's no one around."

"No."

"I'll clean up the mess."

At this she scoffs, "No you won't. Even if we did make a mess, which we we're not going to, because the answer's no."

"I've been good this week." He hasn't, and he must know what a long shot it is, but he tries anyway. "Did all my clinic hours. Did, well _some_ paperwork anyway. Okay, I got the kids to do some, but I signed off on it. Most of it. Okay, forget the paperwork. Did I mention the clinic thing?"

Amused, she continues to move around, sorting through papers and putting things away. She picks up her briefcase and sets it upright in her chair. "I'm not about to start rewarding good behaviour with sexual favours," she tells him bluntly, "It sets a dangerous precedent. Especially when that 'good behaviour' is actually the job you get paid to do."

"Damn you and your slippery slopes."

He's sulking now. Even though she's fairly sure he never really expected her to agree in the first place. He knows better than that, he knows _her_ better. He -

"House," she warns, straightening up suddenly.

"We can close the blinds, no one will know." This, spoken in her ear, because he's got her caught against the edge of the desk with his hands on her hips, holding her in place.

She really should know better than to reach across her desk like that with him hovering nearby.

"Not going to happen," she says flatly, and with a manoeuvre involving an elbow in a sensitive place she's back out of reach and stuffing things in her briefcase.

"Ow," he says, rubbing his diaphragm and feigning injury. When she glances up again he's thrown in a dose of his best wounded puppy-dog face.

She rolls her eyes. As if that's going to work on her. But then - because she's no sucker, but she's not heartless, either - abandons her briefcase, ignoring the immediate switch from hurt to triumph in his eyes as she steps over to him.

"I'll tell you what," she says, leaning up a little so her mouth is close to his ear, "Save it till we get home, and I'll let you bend me over anything you want."

So they don't have sex in her office.

But somehow he doesn't seem too bent out of shape over it. So to speak.


End file.
